


The Resurrection Men

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: A Tale of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
Genre: Family, Ficlet, French Revolution, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, London, Male Friendship, Married Couple, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22086586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: gentle_heraldgave me this title, and I thought Lucie Manette's reflections deserved space.
Relationships: Charles Darnay/Lucie Manette
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	The Resurrection Men

It is, in many ways, the unlikeliest of friendships. The first time Lucie sees the two backs – hunched and straight, broad and slim – together on the bench under the willow tree, she pauses in her work to make sure she’s seeing right. Sometimes, she does see things, hear things, that aren’t there. Footsteps in the cul-de-sac. The rumble of carts. A familiar voice, a familiar laugh, now silenced. Sometimes she imagines him there, in the garden, the man with the careless airs and the serious eyes.

But she is not imagining this: her husband and Jerry Cruncher, side by side, under the willow tree, each with a pint in hand.

Some days, it feels like a cowardice, staying in this house, tucked safely away in the heart of London. Other days, it feels like a necessity: the only thing holding them together, the only thing keeping them alive. Mr. Cruncher, as if it were inevitable, has become their odd-job man, running errands to the outside world. “My esteemed Mr. Cruncher!” bellows Miss Pross, whenever he arrives; and he appears to be nothing discomfited by this, grinning and tugging at his spiky hair in respectful greeting.

She cannot help it: she breathes a sigh of relief whenever one of the household returns. To her surprise, her father seems to have settled peacefully back into his profession. It is as if the confusion, the pain of Paris had been washed away by the Channel crossing, as if he has accepted entirely this new life as a perfect resurrection, the old life washed away. For Charles it is less easy. For her it is less easy. She is still haunted by how ill he was, how helpless, on their return from France. He still sometimes wakes weeping. He reaches for her in his sleep. That, at least –- that they have. She has the safety of his arms. The world is full of terrors, but she has won back the lives she loves. 

All but one, perhaps. But that… that was his choice, his saving of himself. Mr. Lorry had told her. And if, sometimes, she asks him to tell her again, she knows that there will be no condemnation and no pity in those kind old eyes. And she and Charles are making a life. Little Lucie will grow up without fear, the singing of those who wanted her father’s death a fading memory, one of childhood’s bad dreams. She tells herself that the next child will be a boy, that he will live, unlike small Charles, and unlike the man who must be his namesake. And Charles… Charles kisses her less and less with desperation, more and more with hope. And in the long and quiet afternoons, with the noise of the world far away, he sits on the bench in the garden with Jerry Cruncher, and drinks English beer. 

It makes a kind of sense, Lucie decides. They are both, in their way, resurrection men.


End file.
